The western courtyard of the military camp lay quiet beneath the moon's gentle glow. A tranquil stillness blanketed the surroundings, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Here, Apollyon and Alfredo stood facing each other, bathed in silvery moonlight.

Apollyon's grip on his sword and shield was firm, his stance unwavering. His eyes, filled with determination and ambition, locked onto Alfredo's as they began their nightly spar. It was a dance of skill and strategy, a rigorous routine that aimed to hone his proficiency with both weapons and his body cultivation.

As the first clash of iron echoed through the courtyard, the dance began. Alfredo moved with grace and precision, each strike an embodiment of his mastery. His movements were fluid, a symphony of experience and technique. His sword and shield were an extension of his very being, an intricate part of the dance.

Apollyon met each strike with unwavering resolve. His own movements were marked by tenacity and a thirst for improvement. His swordplay was raw but driven by ambition, his shield a steadfast defence. With each clash, each parry, he sought to bridge the gap between his skill and Alfredo's.

Their spar was both engaging and demanding, a testament to the mentor-student bond they shared. Apollyon's muscles strained, his body cultivated through relentless practice. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, evidence of the effort he poured into each movement.

Alfredo's voice occasionally broke the silence, imparting wisdom about the Heimarch Technique amidst the clash of steel. He explained its principles, its nuances, and the deeper connection it offered to the lifeforce. His words were a guiding light in the midst of battle, a reminder of the greater purpose that fueled Apollyon's ambition.

The courtyard, once quiet and serene, now resonated with the echoes of their nightly spar which was a testament to the relentless pursuit of mastery.

Alfredo's voice cut through the air with precision and authority. His words were a steady stream of wisdom, aimed at honing Apollyon's body cultivation technique as they clashed.

"Apollyon, your foundation in body cultivation is essential," Alfredo emphasized, his voice firm. "Your stance is strong, but remember, balance is key. Channel your energy through your core, grounding each movement. It is the foundation of both defence and offense."

As they parried and struck, Alfredo's strict guidance continued. "Your breath is your lifeline. In the chaos of battle, control it. Deep, rhythmic breaths. It connects you to your lifeforce, fuels your movements, and maintains your stamina."

Their swords clashed again, the sound resonating through the courtyard. Alfredo's comments were relentless, each one aimed at refining Apollyon's technique. "Your strikes, while determined, lack finesse. Precision, Apollyon. Channel your energy into your strikes, find the balance between power and control."

Alfredo's voice carried a sense of urgency as he observed Apollyon's movements. "Your shield is an extension of yourself. Don't just block; deflect, counter. It's a dance of offense and defence, a seamless transition."

Their sparring continued; the rhythm of their clash matched by the rhythm of Alfredo's guidance. "Remember, Apollyon, the Heimarch Technique emphasizes connection to the lifeforce. Feel it flow through you, guide your movements. It is your source of strength, your essence."

Alfredo's tone remained strict but unwavering. "Your tenacity is commendable, but don't let it blind you to finesse. Mastery comes through balance, through the harmony of technique and lifeforce. It is a path of discipline, and you must embrace it."

As his strict guidance poured forth in the midst of their heated spar, Apollyon's thoughts and actions on the other hand, were a reflection of his unwavering determination. He understood the gravity of mastering this art in a world that offered little room for error.

With each clash of swords and each calculated movement, Apollyon channeled Alfredo's teachings into action. His body was a canvas upon which he painted the lessons of balance and control.

‘Balance’, he thought as he adjusted his stance, seeking that elusive equilibrium between offense and defence. ‘Every strike, every block, must be a part of this intricate dance.’

He inhaled deeply, his breath becoming a rhythmic anchor amidst the chaos of their spar. ‘Stamina’, he reminded himself, ‘is my ally. It will carry me through battles where others falter.’

Alfredo's strict words echoed in his mind as he adjusted his strikes, seeking precision over brute force. ‘Power’, he realized, ‘must be harnessed, not unleashed recklessly.’

The shield became an extension of his very being, a tool to deflect and counter with finesse. ‘A dance’, he mused, ‘of fluidity and adaptability.’

As Alfredo stressed the importance of connection to the lifeforce, Apollyon delved deep within himself. He sought that intangible link, the essence that fueled his movements. ‘The lifeforce’, he acknowledged, ‘is my source of strength, my very essence.’

His tenacity was unwavering, his ambition etched in every swing and block. In the midst of the spar, he realized the gravity of his journey which was a path that demanded discipline and mastery. ‘Survival’, he thought finally, ‘depends on my ability to embrace this art, to make it an extension of my very being.’

As their spar continued, Alfredo gradually began to notice a subtle shift in Apollyon's movements. The young recruit's strikes held a newfound precision, his defenses becoming more fluid and adaptive. It was as if a deeper connection had been forged between Apollyon and the lifeforce, one that resonated with mastery.

Alfredo took a step back, his eyes keenly observing the transformation in his student's technique. There was a sense of realization in his gaze, and a faint smile graced his lips. It was a moment of recognition, an acknowledgment of Apollyon's remarkable progress.

"Apollyon," Alfredo called out, his voice carrying a tone of both surprise and pride. "It seems you've already breached through the second minor realm of the Energy Refinement stage with remarkable speed."

His words were a congratulatory note, an acknowledgment of the young recruit's dedication and tenacity. Alfredo's stern demeanor softened slightly as he continued to observe Apollyon's movements with a seasoned eye.

"This level of progress is impressive," he admitted, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "Your connection to the lifeforce is growing stronger, and your control over your body's energy is becoming more refined.”

Apollyon's thoughts mirrored the Alfred's observation. The shift in his technique hadn't gone unnoticed to him, for he had felt it deep within himself, as if he had tapped into a wellspring of untapped potential.

‘The second minor realm of the Energy Refinement stage’, he acknowledged inwardly, his thoughts bearing a sense of logical understanding. ‘It’s not a surprise I guess, after all, I've been pushing myself, seeking that connection to the lifeforce with every strike and every movement these last few weeks.’

Alfredo's recognition, though welcomed, was in many ways a confirmation of what he had sensed himself. His tenacity and dedication were yielding results, and he was beginning to grasp the intricacies of the Heimarch Technique.

With a composed and mature tone, Apollyon responded to Alfredo's congratulatory remarks. "Thank you, Alfredo. It seems like the concept of ‘lifeforce’ is becoming more tangible, more responsive to my intentions" he remarked as he stared into the metallic reflections of his iron sword.

Suddenly, a shadow of uncertainty lurked within his mature mind. The progression he had achieved was a testament to his dedication, but it also cast a long, ominous shadow of the future. A future where these skills would be tested in the crucible of combat.

‘When will I eventually use these skills in battle?’ This thought echoed grimly in his mind. He was keenly aware of the harsh reality that awaited him. In the dark world outside the camp's confines, he knew that there would be no room for half-measures or hesitation. ‘Every confrontation must be a battle of life or death.’

The weight of this realization bore down on him, and a shiver of unease rippled through his mature thoughts. The idea of taking another's life, even in self-defence, was a haunting prospect that haunted him time and time again. He ruminated whether he could truly follow through with the actions that such a dire situation demanded.

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‘Can I, when the time comes, make that split-second decision to strike down another?’ The question hung heavily in the dark recesses of his mind as he stared questioningly above. The lonesome moon, though a silent witness to their spar, offered no answers.

It hung in the night sky like an unblinking eye as Apollyon continued to ponder in silence. A sombre question eventually tumbled from his lips, heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

"Alfredo," he began, his voice a mere whisper amidst the silent surroundings, "what would you do... in a life or death situation?"

Alfredo's gaze, filled with the wisdom of years and the weight of countless battles, met Apollyon's. He recognized the complexity of the question, one that was deeply subjective and devoid of easy answers. But he was also Apollyon's mentor and guardian, bound by a ruthless commitment to guide his student in the harsh realities of their world.

He didn't hesitate to respond, his tone carrying the grim, dark realism of their shared understanding. "In a life or death situation, Apollyon, you must be prepared to do whatever it takes to survive. There is no room for hesitation or sentimentality. The world outside is unforgiving, and it will test your resolve in ways you can't imagine."

Alfredo's words were a stark reminder of the harsh truths that lingered in Apollyon’s mind. "If it comes down to it, and there's no other choice, you must act decisively. Protect yourself, protect those you care about. Survival is the highest priority, and it demands sacrifices."

His gaze didn't waver, and his voice remained unflinching. "But," he added, "that doesn't mean you must abandon your humanity. It's a fine line to tread, Apollyon. You must find a way to reconcile the actions you take with the person you want to be…"

The moon, as ever, remained silent, offering no solace in the face of their grim conversation. In this moment, Apollyon received a harsh lesson that he knew was too real to ignore. It was a lesson that demanded maturity, resilience, and a stark understanding of the sacrifices survival might demand. He was aware of this in fact; he just refused to acknowledge it for fear of losing ‘something’.

In the midst of their grim conversation, Apollyon's acceptance of the harsh realities of their world was overshadowed by a lingering fear: a fear of the act of killing which had haunted the corners of his mind like a spectre.

In a sudden fit of reprieve, as if the question had burst forth without the slightest thought behind it, he blurted out a question that hovered in the air like an unspoken accusation.

"What... who was the first being you killed?"

The words tumbled from his lips, raw and unfiltered, like an exposed nerve. He hadn't meant to ask, hadn't meant to pry into his butler's past. But the question hung in the air, a stark reminder of the darkness that lingered on the edges of their shared reality.

Realizing the audacity of his question, Apollyon quickly tried to retract it, his tone laced with regret. "I'm sorry, Alfredo. You don't have to answer that. It was a thoughtless question."

But Alfredo, to Apollyon's surprise, refused to dismiss the question outright. There was a brief vulnerability in his gaze, one that even Apollyon, in his introspective state, couldn't overlook.

Alfredo recognized that this was an opportunity to impart a crucial lesson to him even if it meant showing a momentary weakness that he would normally refuse to reveal. He met Apollyon's gaze, his own bearing the weight of experience and the emotional scars of his past. "No, Apollyon," he said with a firm yet sombre tone. "You asked, and I won't ignore it. It's a question that lingers in the minds of many who've dared walk this path."

Alfredo then began to share a brief account of his first kill, phrasing it vaguely to avoid giving too much detail. "It was an act of self-defence," he began, his voice heavy with the memories that resurfaced, “A man…” his words carefully chosen to reveal little detail. "I was young, much like you are now. The first time... it changes you, Apollyon.”

His words carried the grim, dark, and realistic tone that marked their conversation. "It was a moment of survival. I had to make a choice, one that haunts me to this day. It's a reminder that in our world, sometimes the line between life and death is thinner than we'd like it to be."

The moon continued to cast its cold light upon them, Alfredo's brief account hung heavily in the air. In this exchange, Apollyon received a small glimpse into the depths of Alfredo's past experiences; experiences that had shaped the mentor into the seasoned warrior he was.

As Alfredo recounted his past trauma, Apollyon watched the subtle shifts in his expressions. He noticed a hint of weariness, a shadow of memories that lingered in the depths of his eyes. Apollyon recognized that this was a touchy subject, one that had demanded a measure of vulnerability from Alfred.

Inwardly, he admired his effort to relay the information with a sense of stoicism, a testament to the strength that years of experience that he had seemingly forged within him. But Apollyon also understood that dwelling on this subject wouldn't serve them well.

He needed to navigate the conversation away from this deeply personal topic and onto more practical matters. With a measured tone, Apollyon acknowledged the gravity of the moment.

“Thank you for sharing…uncle.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But let's leave the past behind us. We have to look forward, focus on the path ahead.”

…

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting elongated shadows across the camp's pathways as Apollyon embarked on his solitary stroll. The evening had taken an unexpected turn during his conversation with Alfredo, veering into the realm of the past and its dark secrets.

He had refrained from delving deeper, not wishing to disturb the painful memories that lay dormant within his butler's heart. Yet, a sense of frustration lingered in the back of his mind, a desire to uncover the truth about the medical ward incident that continued to haunt him, he had refrained from asking him due to the turn in events.

As he walked, Apollyon mulled over the unresolved questions and uncertainties that had arisen during their conversation. He wondered if he would ever find the answers he sought, or if the camp's enigmatic layers would forever shroud the events of that grim day.

Amidst his contemplation, a figure emerged from the shadows ahead. At first, Apollyon couldn't discern the identity of the approaching individual. The night's darkness concealed their features, rendering them a mere silhouette. But as the figure drew nearer, Apollyon recognized the cadence and gait that were unmistakably Cicero's. The mysterious recruit had always intrigued him, lurking on the periphery of his awareness.

Apollyon's curiosity piqued, and he purposefully slowed his steps, his gaze fixed on the approaching figure. He wondered what the elusive recruit might want or entail, or perhaps this encounter might lead to more questions than answers.

The night held its breath as Apollyon and Cicero came to a halt, standing just a meter apart. Cicero lifted his head, acknowledging Apollyon's presence with a faint, enigmatic smile. It was a gesture that seemed to conceal more than it revealed.

"Hello," Cicero spoke nonchalantly, his voice carrying an air of casual curiosity. "Apollyon, right?" he continued, as if they were old acquaintances catching up.

Apollyon was momentarily taken aback by the unexpected encounter. He had always considered Cicero to be a figure of intrigue, someone who existed on the fringes of camp life, observing rather than participating. The fact that Cicero even initiated a conversation with him was a surprise in itself.

"Yep, that's me," Apollyon replied, his tone casual yet cautious. He couldn't help but wonder what had prompted Cicero to approach him on this quiet, moonlit night.

..

"Do you believe in fate?" he suddenly asked.

Cicero's voice, though calm, held an enigmatic quality that sent shivers down Apollyon's spine. The night's shadows danced around them as they stood face to face, the camp's dimly lit lanterns casting flickering lights across their figures.

Apollyon, taken aback by the sudden encounter, hesitated for a moment before responding, "Fate? What do you mean by that?"

Cicero's smile remained cryptic as he continued, "I mean the idea that every step we take, every choice we make, has been predetermined by some greater force. Do you think we're mere puppets in a grand design, or do you believe in forging our own path?"

Apollyon's brow furrowed as he considered the question. He had never delved into philosophical discussions like this with anyone in the camp before. An unexpected rush of excitement suddenly rushed through him as he contemplated the question. "I've never really thought about it," he admitted, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"I've always believed in making my own choices, but... sometimes, it feels like there's something guiding us I suppose...."

Cicero's eyes seemed to gleam with intrigue. "Indeed, there are forces beyond our control, weaving the threads of our lives. But what if there's more to it than meets the eye? What if we have the power to defy even fate itself?"

Apollyon found himself drawn into Cicero's narrative, a story that seemed to hint at possibilities far beyond the camp's walls. "Are you saying we have the power to change our destinies?"

Cicero's smile deepened, though it was impossible to tell if it was born of hope or resignation. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But the mere thought of it should ignite a spark within us, shouldn't it? A flicker of defiance against the unknown."

Cicero's exit was as enigmatic as his arrival. With a faint smile lingering on his lips, he closed the distance between them, his words barely more than a breath of night air. "Fate," he whispered, his voice a haunting echo, "is a riddle. The answer lies within, friend."

With those cryptic words lingering in the air, Cicero continued on his path, stepping into the shroud of darkness that slowly swallowed him whole whistling as he walked further into the obsidian night.

Apollyon stood there, disoriented, the tune Cicero whistled was haunting, a melody that sent shivers down his spine. But it wasn't just the words or the tune that unsettled him.

As Cicero walked past Apollyon, a faint, unsettling sensation rippled through the night air. It was the scent, the unmistakable odour that wafted from Cicero as he passed.

It was a familiar scent, unmistakable and chilling. The metallic tang of blood.

Apollyon's senses sharpened, and his heart quickened as he turned to watch Cicero's retreating figure. He couldn't see any visible signs of injury on the mysterious recruit, but the scent was undeniable.

In the still of the night, he heard Cicero continuing his eerie whistling, a unique melody that seemed to echo in the darkness. Apollyon's mind raced with questions and suspicions, but one thing was certain in his mind: Cicero was no ordinary recruit.

Apollyon couldn't shake the feeling that he had just brushed against something far darker and more profound than he could have ever imagined. The night closed in around him, and he was left with Cicero's final whisper echoing in his mind, like a riddle waiting to be unravelled.